Killer Secrets

by Lora Leigh

  Kira threw herself back, knowing, certain, she was staring death in the face until she stumbled over the body behind her.

  Whirling, she had only a moment to glimpse the fallen terrorist before she shoved the loosened board aside and slipped from the warehouse to the inky darkness beyond.

  Just that easily he had killed one of his own men. For her.

  She ran through the night, careful to stay down, to keep as many obstacles as possible between her and any bullets that might come her way.

  The Chameleon had been bested by a Navy SEAL gone rogue. Or had she been rescued by a deep-cover agent now so immersed in the mission that he was no longer the man he had been a year before?

  Something inside her ached at the thought of either answer. Over the years, Ian Richards had managed to see through every disguise she had used in the various operations where they had met up. She had been on the inside, he had always been part of the force sweeping in to clean up the mess her information had helped locate. Once again, he had seen through another disguise, but this time, they might not be on the same side. And the very scary part of that was the fact that she knew she wouldn't let it stop her. She had come to Aruba to claim what was hers before his father, Diego Fuentes, could steal his soul.

  But she was there for another reason as well. If he hadn't gone rogue, then she was there to make certain that the SEAL didn't murder either the terrorist Sorrell that he had vowed to identify and capture for his father, or his father, the drug lord Diego Fuentes.

  The Chameleon had no answers to the questions she had confronted the director of Homeland Security with. Was Ian operating under mission parameters of DHS? She had asked that question twice. Each time the same answer: DHS doesn't contract rogue SEAL operatives.

  There were no straight answers, there was only supposition and her orders. Reestablish a relationship with Ian and ensure Homeland Security acquired Sorrell should Ian identify him, as they suspected he would. And keep Diego Fuentes alive.

  Diego Fuentes was an asset. He was a DHS-contracted informant. And Ian had no idea the lengths the Department of Homeland Security was willing to go to keep him alive.

  IAN SWEPT HIS GAZE ACROSS the floor of the warehouse as the team of trained soldiers moved in slowly, dragging the bodies of the assassins to the cleared center of the warehouse.

  There were a dozen. Their faces were known to him, several had a price on their heads. Too bad he couldn't collect.

  "There's one missing." One of his elite bodyguards spoke at his side. "The blonde. We haven't found her body."

  And they wouldn't either.

  Ian glanced to his head bodyguard, Deke. Deep cover, a ten-year veteran of the Fuentes cartel, his dark eyes reflected the same chill Ian knew his own did.

  This world did that to a man. Planted in ice where a heart should be and diluted the guilt over the bloodshed. The bastards now lying in the center of the warehouse were murderers, kidnappers, rapists. They were terrorists who didn't care who lived or died as long as their fanatical agenda was observed.

  He kicked at one lying on its side, knocking the body over until the dead eyes stared up at the heavily beamed ceiling.

  "The girl that got away is Algeria Winters," Deke reported. "There's no sign of her, boss."

  She didn't get away. He'd let her go.

  Ian stared at the terrorist's body. He remembered this one from a mission in Russia several years before. Algeria Winters had been there as well. A Russian-born informant who often worked with Antoni Ruissard, the dead terrorist at his feet.

  Anger tightened his jaw as his fingers clenched on the Glock he held carefully by his side.

  "We have a team in place in Oranjestad as well as Palm Beach," Trevor stated. "We can get her description out, have her picked up."

  Ian nodded slowly. "Go ahead."

  They wouldn't find her. The persona Algeria Winters would be discarded before anyone else had a chance to see her. The higher cheekbones would be altered, that sharp chin would disappear, hazel eyes would change, and blond hair would become another color. Her next disguise would be as natural, as smooth as birth, and no one would ever know she was Kira Porter, except him.

  He stared down at the dead assassin Antoni, the dark blond hair matted with blood, the head shot having taken off half his face. He wasn't nearly as handsome, as debonair, as he had been when Ian's men had raided the warehouse.

  "Have the Misserns arrived yet?"

  Josef and Martin Missern were the weapons dealers Ian was to have met at this warehouse. In less than ten minutes.

  "Their limo just pulled in minutes ago," Deke reported. "They're being held outside."

  Ian's jaw clenched. Would the twins, certain Sorrell contacts, have arrived if they had known about this strike?

  Of course they would have, he thought cynically as he stared at the bullet-ridden bodies laid out before him.

  "Secure the perimeter. Half of you take up sniper position, the other half are with me."

  He had a dozen men. He had come prepared. Survival instinct, knowledge of his enemies, or just plain paranoia had precipitated the cautionary attack on the warehouse.

  It wasn't the first time Sorrell had tried to take him out in the past year. Ian had learned to be on guard.

  Of course, that was the price of walking away from a life of truth, justice, and the American way to take over the reins of a drug cartel. That cynical thought had something dark and bitter brewing in his gut.

  As he turned and strode away from the dead bodies he knew none of the regret at the loss of life that he had often known during his years as a SEAL. The knowledge that he'd had no choice, that he was preserving the laws of his nation, didn't comfort him.

  Because he didn't need comfort.

  "What the hell happened in there?" Deke asked, his voice low, as the others moved out to secure the perimeter and to surround the heir of the Fuentes cartel. They left Ian and Deke in the center as they moved from the warehouse.

  "Did you see Algeria?" Ian asked him carefully.

  "Who could miss her," Deke breathed out roughly. "Those Russian cheekbones and cool hazel eyes would be a dead giveaway a mile away. Knock-dead gorgeous and dangerous as hell. Have you ever seen such a pretty package housing such a black heart?"

  Ian holstered his weapon as he stared at Josef and Martin Missern across the warehouse lot, although his attention was focused on Deke.

  "You're sure it was her?" Couldn't anyone else see beneath the package, the disguise?

  "Man, no one could imitate Algeria." Deke snorted, but his look as he stared back at Ian shifted. "Could they?"

  Ian shook his head. "It looked like Algeria; I just didn't expect to see her here."

  "Antoni was here," Deke pointed out. "They're known associates."

  "She doesn't usually work assassination squads," Ian reminded him.

  It was clear Deke didn't have a clue who Algeria actually was.

  Ian rubbed at his jaw, pausing before stepping closer to the Missern limo and staring around the warehouse lot. The neat wood and metal buildings were grouped close together, their contents awaiting shipping or delivery. It was the perfect place for an ambush. So why hadn't the Chameleon warned him of it?

  She had been the Chameleon tonight, partially. The disguise had been perfect, as it always was. The feature-altering latex appeared as natural as true flesh. The contacts in her eyes hadn't given a hint of their true color, and the wig, if it had been a wig, looked as natural as real hair.

  It better be a wig. God help her if she had cut that length of silky black hair that had graced her head in Atlanta.

  She looked like a witch in her natural form. Gorgeous. Wicked. Seductive. The persona of Algeria Winters was as dangerous, as lethal, as any disguise the Chameleon had ever taken though.

  "We have another problem," Deke warned him then.

  Ian glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Just one?"

  Deke grimaced. "Word came in as we were suiting up t
o attack the warehouse. Kira Porter sent a message to the villa saying hello."

  Ian froze. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. She had called the villa? Which meant Diego knew, and that scheming, matchmaking bastard would be all over that one like white on rice. Nothing would please Diego more than to believe Ian had managed to catch the interest of a society princess such as Kira Porter—her real life persona. But it had also been the warning he wondered why he hadn't received.

  He was going to wring her slender, graceful little neck.

  "Ian, what the hell is going on here?" Josef Missern snapped, as he and his brother and chauffer stood with hands flat against the hood of the limo.

  Black-clad Fuentes soldiers pointed lethal M-16s at their backs, their eyes behind the black masks filled with the anticipation of death.

  He pushed Kira to the back of his mind. He would deal with her later. But he would deal with her. And when he did, he promised himself, she wouldn't enjoy it nearly as much as she believed she was going to.

  "Treachery, Josef." Ian strode across the distance with lazy ease as he watched the weapons dealers with a cold smile. "Treachery and death. Would you like to join in? I can arrange it for you."

  The Frenchman paled as his brother stared back at him in horror.

  Oh yeah, they had known what was going to happen here, and they were the perfect messengers to inform Sorrell that his highly paid assassins had failed.

  As for the missing Algeria Winters, aka the Chameleon, aka one satin-fleshed, gray-eyed, black-haired Kira Porter? Well, he would take care of her on his own. And whatever her agenda, she could fly right back to Washington and let her handler know she had failed.

  Ian had warned them when he left to stay the hell out of his way. He would kill and ask questions later before he would risk his own life, and his own plans. He was here for vengeance, and by God, vengeance would be his.

  * * *

  Two

  "SO WHERE THE HELL IS Kira Porter?" Ian slammed the door to his office the next night and faced the bodyguard who had stepped inside with him.

  His orders to Deke that morning had been simple: Find Kira Porter.

  Deke looked as damned tired as Ian felt. Waylaying assassins and buying arms from gun smugglers at midnight, trying to justify letting the scum of the earth live another day, and doing it with only a few hours' sleep in the past two days hadn't helped his mood.

  Nearly being knocked on his ass by a pint-sized black-haired witch with more guts than common sense wasn't helping either. It didn't matter to Ian that she was one of the most experienced and competent contract agents that he knew. It sure as hell didn't help that she likely knew exactly what she was doing. The fact that she was there had the blood boiling in his veins. Unfortunately, it wasn't all anger that was causing it.

  "Miss Porter checked into one of the hotels on the beach," Deke reported as he frowned down at the pocket PC he was tapping quickly into. "We tracked her down pretty fast. We lost Algeria Winters though. She was on a private flight off the island within hours of the hit the other night. She's slick."

  Ian grunted.

  Deke was able, a master at strategy and a hell of a gutter fighter.

  "And we're just now finding out Kira's here?" he gritted out, stalking to his desk and planting his hands flat on the deep, glistening wood as he stared back at Deke. "Where the hell are these informants I'm paying good money for? Wasn't her name on the fucking list?"

  It was all he could do to keep his voice level, to rein in the need to pull at every hair in his head. Kira Porter had a habit of doing that to a man. She raised a man's frustration level just by being in the same room with him.

  For a moment, one flashing second, he remembered more than frustration though. He remembered slipping into her Atlanta condo, trapping her in her bed, and demanding to know just exactly what she was doing there living next door to a senator's daughter who had been kidnapped two years before by Diego Fuentes.

  He remembered waiting for an answer as his cock swelled beneath his jeans and visions of fucking her until she screamed his name had danced in his head. Those dreams still danced in his head. He was just smart enough to keep them under control. For now.

  Damn it to hell. He didn't need her here.

  "I'm not hearing any answers," he snarled. "Did I or did I not put her name on the list of those that I wanted to be notified if they arrived on the island?"

  "You did." Deke nodded. "Someone must have been sleeping on the job. She's been here a week now, her and her bodyguard. Evidently her uncle owns some interest in a few of the hotels on the island and she's here checking those out. I got the information on our way back from the buy. I don't know why her name slipped past our informants."

  "Then maybe you should wake someone's ass up," he snapped, glaring at the other man furiously. "It's your job to get this information and to make certain those well-paid little snitches stay on the ball."

  He dropped into the chair behind him, pushed his fingers wearily through his long dark blond hair, and glowered back at the other man.

  Hell, this was just what he needed. He had a hard-on stiff enough to hammer nails.

  He rubbed his hand over his cheek, grimacing at the rough day's growth of beard and wondered why the hell he hadn't just killed those damned Missern brothers rather than letting them go. Son of a bitch, he had known those two were going to betray him the minute the runner had arrived that afternoon changing the location of the buy. Not that either of the Missern twins had actually been there. Hell no. A highly trained team of assassins had been there instead, and one luscious little spy.

  He should have put a bullet in both their heads and left them lying there after he wiped out that warehouse. He knew they had betrayed that buy to Sorrell, knew they were behind the information suddenly leaking to the French terrorist intent on taking over the cartel that Diego Fuentes had built.

  If it were anyone else but a terrorist, he would have handed it to them on a silver platter rather than using what he was learning was considerable skill in deceit, treachery, and running drugs to keep the cartel growing in blood money.

  But he was running out of time as well. If he didn't have Sorrell's identity soon, then there would be no way to counter the terrorist strike Ian and DHS knew Sorrell had planned against a major U.S. installation. Which one, they didn't know. When and where, no one was certain. All Ian knew was that he had until the next month, because after that, it could happen any day.

  He shook his head wearily. "Get out of here," he ordered. "Catch a few hours' sleep. We'll be heading out tonight and we'll need to be on our toes to deal with that one. She's hell on wheels and damned hard to pin down."

  "She's been hitting the clubs since she arrived as well, pretty much nightly, several a night and never the same one twice. Our guys at the clubs claim she watches the door for a few hours, sips at a drink, then leaves quietly. She's been watching for you," Deke reported.

  Tonight she was going to find him.

  He nodded abruptly at the information and waved toward the door, almost groaning at the need for sleep as Deke closed it behind him.

  He felt like a man with a hangover and he knew he hadn't had that particular pleasure for too many months now. And it was too early this morning to start drinking.

  He stared around the room instead. The wide windows that caught the sun, shades partially drawn across them and spilling slanting rays of light onto the wood floors. The cream-colored walls, the heavy wood furniture. It was a masculine room. Two heavy, dark leather chairs sat in front of his desk; along the side of the room an overstuffed couch and two chairs were grouped around a coffee table. A bar at the far end and a plasma television on the wall close to his desk.

  It wasn't his office. The villa was leased, the grounds heavily patrolled, and the small island a haven from the estate in Colombia that had seemed to grate on his nerves worse by the day when he had been there.

  Hell, he didn't need this.

  He ran his ha
nds over his face once again and restrained another curse. Kira was a complication that he knew he should have anticipated. He had known a year ago that she could fuck his plans up royally.

  Because he wanted her. He wanted her until the want burned in his guts. Until the hunger for her interfered with his ability to even take another woman.

  He hadn't had a woman since meeting up with Kira in Atlanta last year. Since he lay over her in the monstrous bed in her condo, felt her body conform to his, and her kiss burn into his soul.

  He had been insane to kiss her at that point and he had known it. If it had stayed at a kiss, maybe he could have retained a measure of control. But now, he had to touch, taste sumptuous flesh and push to the edge before he pulled back in the gathering realization of where it was going.

  If he had taken her that night, he never could have never walked away from her.

  He shook the memory away at the sound of a brief knock, his head lifting as Deke stepped back into the office.

  "I told you to get some rest, Deke," he sighed.

  They had existed on catnaps for most of the week, working to get the arms shipment in place on this tiny island and make certain that parts of it headed to Colombia in a timely fashion. The processing warehouses for the cocaine the Fuentes cartel dealt in was in too much danger from the forces looking to take over the business.

  He had to hold on, just a little bit longer, then he could blow those fucking warehouses to hell and back himself.

  "I'm heading that way soon, boss." Deke stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "I was checking a few things. I don't like it when people slip in that we don't know about. These came in after I made contact with some other informants."

  Deke handed him the reports as well as several grainy color photographs. He laid the report aside and looked at the photos first.

  Two known Sorrell agents had come in by way of New York. Ian recognized the French nationals with a little sneer of his lips. The other was the assassin they had taken out in the warehouse the night before. The assassin's dossier was thick, his kill rate nearly one hundred percent.